


black out

by narrativefoiltrope



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: (it's more bittersweet than happy but you get the idea), Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28368942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrativefoiltrope/pseuds/narrativefoiltrope
Summary: mason's memory wall comes crashing down in front of unit bravo and the detective, causing him to question how safe it is for the detective to be around him.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	black out

His screams started as a low guttural sound. 

A rumble in the back of his throat—almost painful because of its depth—that worked its way up into his mouth and pried his lips open, demanding to be heard. Raw, ear-shattering cries that forced him to cover his ears, the volume uncontrollable. 

He couldn’t stop; he could only try to ride the agony, the terror, like a wave and pray that he wouldn’t be dragged under.

Images—memories, his memories—refused to stop flashing through his mind. With each new one came pain blinding white in his head, obscuring his vision, echoing in the corresponding part of his body he watched masked people break, sear, bleed. He re-lived every experiment. Every torture. Every atrocity, relentless. 

He was drowning. No longer riding the emotions, the memories, but consumed by them. His fingers tugged his hair, nails dug into his scalp. Jaw almost dislocated by his own hands. Lips bloodied, split. 

Knees met the floor hard. 

“Detective, you need to stay back. It’s not safe for you to be here right now,” he heard Adam say through gritted teeth. Was he in pain too? 

Gentle hands tentatively touched his arm and for a moment, the searing torment subsided. He managed to open his eyes and saw Winter’s brown ones, wide with concern and glassy with unshed tears, watching him. 

Then a moment of panic unrelated to the pain. In one instant of burning clarity, he realised he didn’t want her to see him like this—whatever ‘this’ looked like from the outside. He twisted away, instinctively trying to shield her. From himself.

When he pushed himself out from under her hands, another memory crashed down on him. Shattered him. 

The last thing he heard before he blacked out was Winter screaming.

**

He was floating. Lightweight. Unburdened by gravity. 

No light reached his eyes. Were they open? Was he awake? 

...Was he— 

Alarm set in and he came crashing down into his body. Fuck, it would’ve been better to stay in that dream-like state. He could tell he was heavily medicated: It was a fight to move, limbs no longer weightless but leaden, pinning him to—to what? Something soft...his bed. 

He tried to lift his fingers. A fucking mistake. A dull ache settled all over him and he hissed. 

The sound of a wet, choking gasp alerted him to the fact that he wasn’t alone. He tensed. A moment passed before he recognised—distantly, as if through a fog—the familiar heartbeat.

The quiet drumming pulled him back to that moment. 

Fuck. 

...She had been there. She had seen whatever the hell it was to see; his meltdown, his violence, both. And she had screamed—had he directed that at her? 

_What had he done?_

Normally her presence was a balm. A caress that softened the harshness of his reality, a tenderness that was unfamiliar (and maybe fucking undeserved). She was too gentle for what he had done—he didn’t even know what it _was_ he’d done, but knew this to be true—too gentle for what he was capable of. 

(And hell, if he was being honest with himself, he had known this from the beginning of whatever the fuck they were, whatever this was or wasn’t. The wall coming down, the crystal breaking, may have increased the chances of her getting hurt— _him hurting her,_ fuck—but the possibility had always been there. Even if he knew that she was stronger than most others gave her credit for, he was aware that he could destroy her without trying. Without touching her.) 

She shouldn’t have been here. 

And yet, when he dragged his eyes open—a struggle in and of itself—something caught in his throat at the sight of her keeping vigil at his bedside curled up in a chair. Openly weeping without trying to hide her tears for the first time. He shifted slightly and Winter swallowed her sobs, met his eyes, and lunged out of her chair towards him. 

“Mason!” she gasped. “You’re awake, thank god.” She frantically wiped her sleeve under her eyes as she settled gingerly on the bed next to him. Winter reached out to him, hand outstretched to brush his hair back from his face. 

He turned away so that his head was out of her reach; didn’t (couldn’t) meet her eyes. She shouldn’t have been this close to him, shouldn’t have tried to touch him.

She paused. He heard her attempt to stifle a sharp intake of breath before bowing her head. Winter gently pushed herself off of his bed and he thought that was it: She would get the memo, leave, and he would be alone. He closed his eyes again and braced himself for it (he didn’t want to think of what, exactly, he was bracing himself for; her leaving, his loneliness, either—both—fucking hurt).

Her heartbeat didn’t fade away; he didn’t hear her shuffle out of his room. Instead, he heard her come closer to him. Frowning, he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. 

Winter was crouched on the floor next to his head. She fixed him with a stare that carried an uncharacteristic intensity, molten fire burning in her irises and engulfing him. He couldn’t look away but he desperately wanted to.

“Mason,” she breathed.

“You should go.” His voice cracked, throat ragged, when he managed to get the words out. 

She returned his frown with a hard one of her own—a defiant look that he had never seen on her before. “Are you trying to make a decision for me?” 

Fuck. He’d stepped into that one. He couldn’t defend his position, wasn’t dumb enough even in his medicated and battered state to try. Instead, he set his jaw, ripped his eyes away from her again.

When Winter was satisfied that he wasn’t going to argue, she continued, “I’m not going anywhere.” A brief pause. “Mason, look at me please.” 

He didn’t respond, refusing to meet her gaze. 

Long fingers gently but firmly clasped his chin and turned his head towards her. Her eyes had softened when he eventually looked at her and when she spoke again, it was to answer a question he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

“I’m fine,” she said quietly. “Adam, Nate, Felix—we’re all fine. We’ve been worried about _you.”_

“I heard you scream.” ...He hadn’t meant to say that.

Winter gave him a hesitant smile. “I had a migraine, but it passed quickly.” 

Fuck, he knew it. He knew he had hurt her ( _again,_ no doubt worse this time than on patrol, but this time was different because he—because _she_ —). Why was she here, she shouldn’t—

She moved her hand from his jaw to cup his cheek and he leaned into the touch despite himself. “I know you didn’t mean to,” she whispered, offering a merciful smile that made his chest twinge.

He barked out a rueful laugh. “I still hurt you though, didn’t I, sweetheart?”

Winter cupped his other cheek in her free hand. “I’m not afraid of you, Mason.”

“Maybe you should be,” he growled roughly. 

“But I’m not,” she quickly returned, voice soft in tone and volume. “I trust you.” 

He didn’t—couldn’t—say anything in return. The simple declaration stole the breath from his lungs. A buzzing sound that he couldn’t place rang through his head, making it hard to focus. 

He knew she meant it—her breathing was steady, her heartbeat stable—and the look on her face was so painfully earnest that it left no room for him to consider whether she was merely trying to protect him like she so often did. Suddenly he ached; was bowled over by it—by her, her unwavering belief in him (did he deserve it?).

(Did it matter if he didn’t?) 

Winter registered his shock. She shifted closer to him, shushing him quietly (he hadn’t realised he was making noise, but then felt a strangled cry stop halfway up his throat). Checking he was okay with the touch, she moved one of her hands from his cheek to run through his hair. Her fingers gently untangled the snares with each pass (...how long had he been out? Fuck, the number of knots made it seem like more than a night). 

“Shh, I’m here, I’m here. I’m not leaving you,” came the hushed statements repeated reverently, barely audibly, like prayers. The words should have lost their meaning with the repetition, should’ve dissolved into comforting syllables divorced from implication, yet the more she said them, the more he began to believe them. 

He began to feel drowsy, the stress of his—would he call it fear? Fuck, _fine,_ he had been afraid that he’d hurt her. And he did but she was still _here,_ still carding her hands through his hair, still murmuring reassurances that made him feel calmer than any sedative could—the stress of his fear of losing her, of her leaving him, finally taking its toll now that he understood he hadn’t, she wouldn’t. It was too much work to keep his eyes open any longer, so he let them fall closed.

The last thing he felt before he blacked out was Winter’s lips on his forehead.

**Author's Note:**

> look, this is a belated christmas gift to myself since i almost always write mason comforting winter, not winter comforting mason. anyway, that wall is coming down at some point and i'm terrified for it! 
> 
> come yell about twc with me on tumblr (@narrativefoiltrope).


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